Seven Days To Forever. Ingrid Weaver
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you sure the problem is in my apartment? I haven’t had any trouble with the electricity until now.”
He took a slim, rectangular device from the pocket of his jeans and held it toward her. “The readings I’m getting on this gauge pinpoint your place.”
She made a show of studying the numbers that were flickering across the screen of the instrument, but it could have been a pocket calculator for all she knew. “I see.”
He hesitated for a moment, then lowered his voice and bent his head toward her. “Please, ma’am. I’d like to get this job finished and get home. You see, it’s my birthday.”
The door wobbled as she jerked. More water dripped from her hair to her shoulders and trickled down her blouse. “Your birthday?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You’re not serious.”
“’Fraid so. I hit the big three-oh today.”
“That’s…odd.”
“Sure is, according to my folks. They claimed I’d never make it this far.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“They’re expecting me for dinner tonight, but I have to finish this job before I can leave, so if you don’t mind…”
She gritted her teeth and forced herself to return her gaze to his face. He was smiling. A hopeful tilt at the corners of his lips. She could almost hear moth wings sizzling. “I meant I can’t believe it’s your birthday today. It’s mine, too.”
His eyebrows rose. “Really?”
“Yes.”
“Now that’s a coincidence.” The lines beside his mouth curved as two dimples appeared in his cheeks. “What are the odds?”
Yes, indeed. What were the odds? Having a man who looked like Flynn O’Toole show up on her doorstep was unlikely enough, but sharing something as personal as a birthday with him was beyond strange. It bordered on bizarre.
Was this some kind of cosmic joke? she wondered. Was this fate’s way of pointing out the road she’d almost taken, the very thing she used her schedules and her timetables to guard against? Just as she was about to adjust the best-before dates on the plans for her life, instead of Mr. Right, Mr. Flynn O’Toole shows up at her door with his blue eyes and his dimples like some karmic birthday present….
Oh, for heaven’s sake, she thought sternly. He was only here to do his job. He couldn’t help how he looked.
Abbie tucked her hair behind her ears, then wiped her wet fingers on her skirt. “Did you say your parents were expecting you for dinner?”
His budding smile disappeared. “Hey, just because I’m thirty and spending my birthday with my parents is no big deal.”
Her conscience twinged. He couldn’t help how he looked, she repeated to herself. She had learned the hard way not to trust handsome men—or to put it more accurately, not to trust her reaction to handsome men—but she really shouldn’t be letting her personal prejudices color her judgment. Who knew? If he actually did plan to visit his parents, maybe there were a few ounces of human decency behind that pretty face, after all.
Not that she would be willing to bet money on it.
Not that his character had any bearing whatsoever on the current situation, she reminded herself firmly. “Excuse me, I didn’t mean to imply there was anything wrong with that. I was getting ready to go over to my parents’ place for dinner myself when the power went off.”
He was silent for a moment, then shook his head and chuckled. “Go figure. Guess you’re in as much a hurry as I am, then.”
“Yes, I believe I am.”
He clipped his ID back on his shirt pocket and gestured toward the door. “Well, the sooner I get started, the sooner both of us can leave.”
She hesitated. The logical side of her brain waged a brief battle with the dark little corner where she kept her instincts. As usual, though, logic won. She had to get organized and get out of here within the next thirty minutes or she was going to disappoint her family. She eased the door shut to unlatch the security bar, then stepped aside to let him come in.
It would be all right. She was just letting him into her apartment, not her life.
Flynn kept his light aimed at the floor as he walked into Abigail’s apartment. She pressed herself against the wall, giving him as much room as possible, then closed the door behind him.
Miss Abigail Locke was a cautious lady, he thought. It was a good thing he’d hit on the idea of making up that story about today being his birthday. That seemed to have smoothed his way inside.
Flynn was good at saying what people wanted to hear. It was a useful talent to have in his business—talking his way out of a situation was often preferable to using force. In spots like this, people called it quick thinking. When he was off duty, people called it charm.
The technical word for it was lying.
But it wouldn’t have accomplished his objective if he’d told Abigail that he’d celebrated his thirtieth birthday more than two years ago. And it sure as hell hadn’t been with his parents. He’d been six years old the last time he’d seen his mother, and as far as he knew, his father was somewhere in Brazil with wife number four.
“What exactly are you looking for?” Abigail asked.
He glanced over his shoulder. Rather than staying by the door, she had followed him into the living room. There was more light here than in the hall, but still, the place was too dim to see more than dark shapes and outlines.
Her outline was worth seeing. Compact, feminine and rounded in all the right places. She must have been fresh from the shower when she’d answered the door. He’d caught a whiff of fruit-scented soap—apple or cranberry, he’d guess. Her hair was wet, plastered flat to her head until just below her ears, where it coiled into heavy curls. She probably hadn’t realized that the drips from her wet hair had been turning her white blouse transparent.
Flynn kept his flashlight aimed at the floor. “Like I said, I traced the short to your apartment, but that’s about as specific as the gauge gets. I need to test each one of your electrical outlets until I find the source of the problem.”
“But wouldn’t each apartment be on a separate circuit? I still don’t understand how a problem here could black out the entire building.”
“Seems the wiring in this building wasn’t done to the standards specified in the electrical code,” he improvised. He had to distract her before she realized how flimsy his story was. “Wow, I still can’t believe we share a birthday.”
“Me, neither.”
“And that we’ll both be spending it with our parents.”
“Mmm. Yes.”
“Are you close to your folks, then?”
“Yes, you could say that.”
He heard the caution in her voice go down another notch. He decided to play up on the family angle. “So am I. A lot of people would call it old-fashioned, but there’s nothing like family.”
“Especially on birthdays.”
“You got that right.” He paused, trying to think of the most likely spot for her to have dropped that backpack. “Kids make it the most fun, though. I’ve got two nephews who can’t wait to blow out my candles.”
“Do you like children?”
“Love them,” he said, figuring that would be what a schoolteacher would want to hear.
A sigh whispered through the darkness. “So do I.”
He used the flashlight to scratch his elbow as he moved toward the outline of